


365

by ToHellandBack



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Destiel - Freeform, Drug Addiction, M/M, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2015-03-22
Packaged: 2018-03-18 18:23:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3579399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToHellandBack/pseuds/ToHellandBack
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>365 days.<br/>365 days and Dean'll be free. Free to see Sammy again, to get back on the road where he belongs. If he happens to meet a blue-eyed, messy haired dork in those 365 days, well, that won't change a thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	365

365 days. 

365 days and Dean will be out. 365 days in this existential mind-numbing hellscape and he'll be free to leave. Free to see Sammy again, to get back on the road where he belongs. 

12 months, 52 weeks, 525,600 minutes. 

 

 

That was all. 

At least, that's the plan. The woman who hands him his first day schedule sees his name and scowls, muttering something about  _no good jail rats,_  and Dean thinks he might just end up shooting himself first. 

His crime alone was horrible enough to fuel his self deprecation for several lifetimes. That, along with being sent by his parole officer to complete his high school credits nearly  _3,000_ miles away from Sam, was all the punishment he needed to send him spiraling down into an even deeper bout of depression. And now he had to spend the next fuckin' year _reliving_ it.

Great.  

He snatches the schedule without looking the woman in the eye, mutters an inaudible thanks before turning on his heels and leaving her and his cloyingly helpful 'Peer Buddy' in the dust. 

In retrospect that might not have been such a hot idea, because for a guy who's spent the majority of his life fuckin' Lewis and Clark-ing his way across most of the continental United States, Dean's surprisingly terrible at finding his way through Lincoln High School. It's almost 15 minutes after the first bell when he finally stumbles into room 4305- Physics- and 25 sets of eyes immediately draw up to his presence. He can see the unfiltered judgement lurking underneath the bright pupils. There's an almost palpable air of  _I'm better than you,_ raised eyebrows, tumblers of coffee and anthropocentric smirks to their Jansport-backpacked friends. It's painfully awkward, and Dean stands frozen in the doorway, shifting on his feet. It's not as though this is an entirely foreign experience to him- hell, he's been the New Kid more times than he can fuckin' count. Only, the places where he went to school were not like this. Not at all. 

He remembers being packed in the back of the Impala, going from shitty town to shitty town. Being enrolled in schools with less government subsidies than the fucking prison around the block. Schools with metal detectors and bars on the windows. Schools full of pregnant teenagers and teachers who didn't care and kids whose dads would be gone for days on end. Schools for people like him. But this- this was different. These were picket fence kids, who stole their parents whiskey and got trashed on that high-end shit. Dean grew up getting high on Dennis Ian's backyard fucking trailer trash home-brew. Getting drunk on bottom shelf booze from the liquor store that would sell to minors if you flashed them your tits. He didn't belong here. And he knew he never-fucking-would

 

"Late on the first day?" The woman at the front of the room raises a gray eyebrow, breaking through Dean's thoughts and the awkward static of the room. "I'm assuming you're Mr. Winchester. There's a seat open over next to Megan. Don't let this happen again." She hands him a course syllabus and gestures him towards the back of the room, either unaware or unconcerned with the fact that Dean has no idea who the fuck Megan is. He scans the class before spotting an empty seat at the lab table next to a dark haired boy in the corner. Eager to shed the attention of his classmates, he hurries over, dumping his stuff on the ground and boosting himself up into the chair. The boy next to him glances over, a pen playing at a piercing in his red lips as he gazes at him with the bluest fuckin' blue eyes Dean's even seen, heavily circled with deep purple bags. Dean returns the look with a glare, pleased when the boy breaks away first. They listen to the teacher talk about  _Learning Habits_ for a couple seconds before the boy speaks. 

" _I don't know if you noticed,"_ He whispers in a voice that's surprisingly deep, " _but I'm not Megan."_ _  
_

Dean frowns and looks over at him. His eyes are trained on the board, lips curled in a teasing smile as though it's some kinda inside joke that they both share. It annoys Dean for a reason he can't quite pinpoint. 

" _Could'a fucking fooled me, man."_ He says. It's comes out in an irritated snap, and he feels bad as soon as the words leave his mouth. But the boy just smiles, sticks out his hand like Dean is the funniest goddamn thing in the whole world.

" _I'm Castiel."_ He blinks his long lashes and it's so fuckin'  _earnest._ There's a hint of an accent Dean didn't notice before- something Slavic, maybe, and he rolls his eyes. He should have sat next to Megan. 

Castiel keeps his arm out and Dean looks at the boy's hand blankly. When he still doesn't move Dean shoots him a dirty look. 

"I don't shake hands, you queer." 

The boy's face flushes a bright red and is thankfully spared from responding by the teacher's nasally reprimand from across the room, demanding to know what could  _possibly_ be more interesting than her class. They shake their heads, mumble apologies and Castiel turns back to face the front, still pink. 

Dean spends the rest of the class trying not to fall asleep as Mrs. Whatshername lectures on, and who he guesses is his new lab partner doodles on his wrist with a black ballpoint. It's a seemingly intricate design, if the scrupulous movements of his pen are any indication, and by the time he's done his arm is almost entirely covered in black curls and lines that creep up to his elbow.

The bell finally rings and Castiel shoves his handouts into his bag, slipping on his hoodie and turning to go. Dean is ready to follow suit and get the hell out of there when something close to guilt stops him. Fuck it. Sam would have wanted him to make friends, anyway.

He sighs and turns to the dark haired boy, biting the inside of his lip and sticking out his hand. 

"Castiel." He calls out before he can change his mind. The boy turns around cautiously, as though there might be some other Castiel that Dean would be calling out for. When he sees Dean's eyes on him his brows knit together almost timidly, looking like a bruised puppy waiting to be reprimanded. It sends an ache down Dean's chest. He swallows. "'m Dean." He introduces gruffly. "Dean Winchester."

The boy looks up at him. He doesn't say anything at first and Dean feels suddenly hot under his leather jacket. What if the kid was mad at him now?  _  
_

" _You're supposed to shake my hand."_ He hisses, glancing around the room. Luckily nobody seems to be paying them much attention. The blue eyes finally crinkle in a thin amusement as he shakes his dark hair, shoving his hands in his ratty sweater pockets. 

"Castiel." Is all he says, leaving Dean with his hand outstretched like a fucking idiot. Then he pauses, adding only as an afterthought- "Novak."- before walking out the door. His tone was reserved, closed, but Dean finds himself smiling anyway. Fucking dork. 

 

The rest of the day is pretty much as shitty as he had expected. The students ignored him, the teachers hated at him (his records, it turned out, had been sent to all his professors, which is just fantastic), and he got lost a total of four times before three-o-clock finally came. 

There aren't any buses that go to his shitty ass neighborhood (his parole officer obviously didn't give enough fucks about him to at least spring for a building in a district not primarily occupied by red-light street whores and ethnic junkies), but he isn't in the mood to ride the bus anyway. The last thing he needs right now is to sit in a death trap full of snot nosed freshman and chocolate milk stains. He misses the Impala like a limb, but his parole officer had given him a firm  _no,_ and to be honest he's not sure if he could trust himself again. 

There's a train that would get him close but he doesn't have enough cash on him, and the giggling girls that had offered him a ride, while hot, were a little more than he could bare at the moment. He turns down their offer, promising a _next_ _time_ , and begins his walk back home. It's longer than he expected, however, and by the time he reaches the front stoop of his building the street lamps have come on, last slivers of pale blue sky flirting on the edge of sunset. To his surprise he sees the kid from his Physics class sprawled on the steps, hoodie flung over one knee and shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal the intricate trace of black pen over the pale flesh of his arm. He's sucking on a cigarette, worry lines creasing the innocence of his face. Dean hesitates, but before he can do anything Castiel is looking up, lines smoothing out all-too-quickly as he smiles and quickly tugs his shirtsleeves back down over his forearms. 

"Hello, Dean." He holds out his pack of cigarettes and beams up at him and jesus _fuck_ did this kid have any friends? Maybe Dean feels bad or something, because before he knows what's happening he's lying next to Castiel as they pass a stolen bottle of Jack back and forth, staring up at the emerging dusk. A small band of ethnic kids are playing with a tennis ball and some string out in the street, and a couple buildings down a prostitute is clearly making some sort of drug transaction with an old man. A gunshot goes off and Dean feels at home. 

"So how was your first day of school?" Cas asks as day finally gives way into night and they puff on their last cigarette. Dean grunts, having been perfectly content with their non-verbal interactions. 

"It was shit." He says in a final sort of voice. Castiel obviously wants to talk more, unsatisfied as he gazes over at him expectantly, and Dean sighs. "I dunno. Miss home, I guess." Sam, the Impala. Even dad, when wan't off on a fuckin' bender or paying some under-the-counter whore to suck him off. Castiel nods as though he knows what the hell he's talking about. 

"Do you miss your friends?" 

"I guess." No. Friends were never a part of Dean's vocabulary. 

"Why'd you come here?" Castiel questions, and Dean looks over at him sharply.

"The fuck do you care?" 

His eyes widen in surprise. "I- I was just wondering....I-" His voice trails off and a flush crosses his face as he stares down at his shoes. They have more than a few holes in them, patched with what looks to be duct tape and bits of cotton t-shirt. _Jesus._  Dean sighs for what seems to be the millionth time today, searching for a topic of conversation not pertaining to his personal life.  

"My teachers were...interesting." He tries. Castiel doesn't look up. 

"Yeah?"

"Lit especially- bitch is _doped the fuck up_. Or maybe she's just like that." Dean cracks a grin, prodding Castiel's side with his elbow. The boy grants him a small, almost pained smile.

"Lit...do you have Johnson?"

"Uh, red hair?" 

"Oh, that's Mrs. Dubois. She's fuckin'  _erratic."_ He whispers it as though it were a secret, actions loose and sloppy from the alcohol. Dean hadn't heard him swear before, and if he's being entirely honest with himself it's kind of endearing.

"Oh really." Dean takes a slow puff, blowing up into the rapidly chilling air as Castiel nods eagerly.

"Yeah! I heard her husband left her for one of her students."

"Was she hot?" 

Castiel snorts. "Yeah. ' _She'._ "

Dean snickers and they turn back to the street, shoulders bumping. There's a long, comfortable silence. The kind Dean isn't necessarily used to. except maybe with Sam in the back seat of car, or Bobby when they would watch football sometimes. It's weird. He's suddenly hyper-aware of every fiber of Castiel pressing into him, every ounce of heat being transferred between the bodies. Castiel's hand is too close to Dean's and he jerks away. 

When Castiel looks up questioningly Dean coughs, needing something to fill the silence. 

"So, uh, what brought you to this little slice'a'heaven?" He asks, rolling the neck of the bottle between his hands. Castiel frowns, but they're quite literally sitting on blood stained brick, so Dean isn't really sure Castiel can argue he's wrong. It's still a long while before he answers; eyes flashing aggrievedly in a way that they previously hadn't been. Dean thinks he isn't going to speak but then he shifts, sighing into his cigarette. 

"Parents walked out a couple years ago." He finally said, looking over to the children playing jump-rope a couple feet away. Dean frowns. 

"You live by yourself?"

"Not alone. I live with my brother, Michael." 

"Just the two of you?"

"My other brother Lucifer drops by sometimes. When he needs money." Castiel takes the Jack from Dean, doesn't bother to wipe the spit off before taking a swig. 

"Castiel, Michael, n' Lucifer. Didn't know I had moved into some sorta Jesus Camp." It's mean to be a joke but it comes out rough. Castiel, luckily, doesn't take it harshly.

"Somebody knows their Catholicism." His smile is weak and blurred by alcohol. Dean grabs back the bottle, takes a slug as he thinks back to the long hours spent reading crusty motel bibles in rooms where the TV didn't work.

"I guess you could say that."

They sit quietly for a few minutes, passing the Daniels back and forth until their bodies are warmed from the drink and their cheeks flushed. Castiel's breathing is slowing down and Dean can feel him starting to slouch against his side, breath warm even through the fabric of Dean's jeans. He glances down at the mop of dark hair. His eyes aren't closed, but his blinking is slow, eyelashes casting dark shadows over the pale stretch of his cheekbones. Before Dean can chastise himself for thinking something so  _incredibly_ gay, he notices a smudge of something under the boy's eyes. It's kind of tan, streaky, and when Dean reaches out to wipe it off Castiel yanks away. His eyes are dark as his jaw tightens. 

"What are you _doing_?" 

Before Dean can answer there's the slam of a window opening, followed by a sharp yell echoing out into the street. 

" _Castiel- pentru a primi dracu sus pentru cină."_

Dean looks up to see a dark-haired man not visually unlike Castiel slamming the window shut. When he turns back Castiel is standing up. 

"I gotta go." He mumbles. throwing one last hard look at Dean before jerking away and running into the apartment, door closing roughly behind him. His hoodie lay forgotten on the stoop. Dean closes his eyes.  _Fuck._

He stays outside for a while longer. He's never been the type to overanalyze, but he musta done somethin' pretty bad to set Castiel off like that. Had he thought Dean was trying to...

_No. Christ._ He wouldn't think that. Right?

Dean pulls himself up. He's acting like a chick. Who gives a fuck what some wide-eyed weirdo thought. Dean Winchester wasn't gay. Especially not for blue fuckin' eyes and scrawny white asses. 

 

 

 

He storms upstairs, crashes on his bed and stares at the crusty ceiling. 

Fuck this. 

Fuck Oregon. Fuck Portland. Fuck Castiel and fuck Lincoln and fuck his father. Fuck the patrilineally engrained alcoholism tattooed into his genetics. Fuck everything. 

Dean presses his cheek to the pillow. A angry tear slips down into the cloth. He wakes up to the church around the corner dinging with the rise of the sun.

364. 

**Author's Note:**

> Castiel-pentru a primi dracu sus pentru cină= Castiel, get the fuck up for dinner 
> 
> Sorry if the wording is wrong, I don't speak Romanian. Feel free to correct :)


End file.
